ICARUS
by cute-will-kill
Summary: Sherlock had decided people were stupid. Just like Icarus. John had decided he loved the story of Icarus; he was just like him, always falling out the sky. It reminded him he was normal too. This story follows John and Sherlock as they grow up, meet and deal with their lives. Wing!Fic.
1. Icarus's Life, It Has Only Just Begun

_ICARUS._

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"_Never regret thy fall, _

_O Icarus of the fearless flight_

_For the greatest tragedy of them all_

_Is never to feel the burning light."_

_-Oscar Wilde_

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'**Daedalus had been imprisoned by King Minos of Crete within the walls of his own invention, the Labyrinth for his role in the conception of the minotaur. But the great craftsman's genius would not suffer captivity. He made two pairs of wings by adhering feathers to a wooden frame with wax. Giving one pair to his son, he cautioned him that flying too near the sun would cause the wax to melt. But Icarus became ecstatic with the ability to fly and forgot his father's warning. The feathers came loose and Icarus plunged to his death in the sea.' **

Sherlock sneered at the book in his hands. The boy was a true idiot. His father, a genius in Sherlock's eyes, had made him wings and the boy had thrown it back in his face. Icarus and Daedalus, the first recorded humans ever to fly.

Sherlock did not even consider how it felt to fly in his criticising of Icarus. He loved to fly over the fields surrounding his house, despite not being able to go too high or too far, loved the feeling of the wind between his feathers. Stretching out his (little) wings so that the primary flight feathers were the furthest they could stretch out; trying to make them seem bigger or just working the sleep out of his muscles.

Mycroft made fun of his (little) wings. Not seriously, not really. But he'd tell Sherlock to stretch out his wings when they were at full extent or he'd make a comment about the colours.

Mycroft had lovely tawny wings with deep chocolate brown primary feathers progressing to lighter browns in his secondaries whilst his dorsal majors were greys and whites. They caught the eye; people fell in love with them.

Sherlock's were more unusual; the dorsal majors down to the primaries faded from a lavender grey to pitch black at the very tips. People often commented that they were 'unusual' or that he'd 'grow out of those colours'. Most peoples' wings were a variation of brown or white. People had a tendency to mistrust things that were different.

Sherlock decided people were stupid. Just like Icarus.

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"_Your hands protect the flames_

_From the wild winds around you" _

_-Icarus by Bastille _

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'**"Remember all the trouble I had getting these feathers to stick?" he said for the sixth or seventh time. "The binding agent I resorted to is unstable," he pointed out as Icarus fidgeted impatiently. "I had to heat it to make it work. If it gets heated again - by the sun, say - it'll give way and the feathers will come loose. Do you understand, boy?" **

**To judge by Icarus's expression, he felt his father was belabouring the point. As it turned out, he might have given his old dad more credit for a caution worth repeating. For as soon as they had leapt from the windowsill and caught an updraft which bore them high into the sky about Mount Juktas, Icarus became giddy with exhilaration. Now he knew what a falcon felt like, dipping and soaring at will. **

**Perhaps he was overcome with the joy of flight for he started flapping with a vengeance. And as he climbed into the thinner air, the sun's proximity began to work as Daedalus had anticipated. The feathers came loose, and Icarus plunged headlong into the sea, which bore his name.'**

John read the short passage by the light of his torch. He sat cross-legged on his bed, the sheet over his head and the torch held in one hand. He always read this story, every night. The story of Daedalus and Icarus. The pages were worn, crinkled and torn but he still re-read the story. Surprisingly the bit where Icarus fell was always his favourite part. It reminded him that he was normal. That he wasn't 'unnatural' just because he could never get very high. He could skim across the ground. But if he got too high he fell.

Just like Icarus.

It was because his primaries were too short or something. John hadn't paid close attention to the doctor. He was still caught up in the 'probably never able to fly higher than twenty meters off the ground.' He didn't really care about the 'why' after that. Plus the fact that he was only eleven when they told him that.

John had got over it. He was like Icarus. He promised himself that he'd go down in history too, though maybe for something better than falling.

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**Okay so just an introduction to this fic. Another chapter will be up soon and the same applies for Growing Up Beside You and Coming Down. **

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**From M and **_**C. **_


	2. Look Up To The Future

_Cuz I gave up quickly,_

_To fly like a bird on the breeze, _

_And I fell down swiftly, _

_Shaking the fruit from the trees, _

_Tearing holes in the knees of my jeans, _

_So don't make the same mistakes as me..._

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Blowing up the chemistry lab had _not _been his fault. Just because he had to show two _idiotic fledglings _what an exothermic reaction was and (very accidently) caused an explosion was not his fault. If anyone's' it was those two idiots.

Seriously who doesn't know that an _exo_thermic reaction gives _off _heat and an _endo_thermic one uses heat?

Elementary really.

"Can we not have a repeat of this Mr Holmes? This _is _the third incident."

"Of course Sir. Not again." The headmaster- who missed his sarcastic tone- had (boring) chestnut brown wings to match his (boring) chestnut brown hair; so boring, dull and safe. Sherlock despised him and his utter idiocy.

"And I'm sure you'll try your upmost!"

"Yes sir."

"Okay, now head back to lessons. I want you to give a hundred-and-ten percent in all of them! And about costs-"

"That's physically impossible sir." Sherlock glared at the (boring) man, honestly if he didn't talk so damn fast he would've interrupted sooner.

"What is boy?" The headmaster snapped. He (obviously) didn't like being interrupted.

"I cannot physically give a hundred-and-ten-percent sir. It's impossible...sir."

"What?" The man seemed confused now, too confused to be angry.

"Sir. Percent means per a hundred. Literally. It is impossible to give a hundred-and-ten out of a hundred."

"Don't back chat me boy."

"No sir." Sarcasm seeped out of those two words and tainted the atmosphere in the room.

"Get back to lessons now boy, before I decide to punish you for insolence."

"Yes...sir." He left quickly striding down the hall. But he didn't go back to lessons; what was the point? They were all idiots. He was miles ahead, sometimes even the professors and lecturers.

Instead he went and sat under the large apple tree he'd found two months ago. It was out in the grounds, secluded.

He climbed to get an apple, ripping his jeans and messing up his hair and shirt. It didn't matter.

Afterwards he sat against the mossy trunk with his wings outstretched, muddy but reasonably happy, for now.

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_And you'll rise up gently, _

_To float like a bird on the breeze, _

_And you'll glide down slowly, _

_Taking defeat gracefully, _

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John was still trying to fly; he'd convinced himself he didn't care but to be honest he did. People liked him, said he was nice and sweet. They always said his wings were a nice soft grey with light brown primaries, people liked them. He was likable.

And yet if they found out his secret they'd always back off, leave or run. He'd had a girlfriend once who'd literally run away. It wasn't a common problem and she was disgusted when he answered truthfully about why he couldn't go out flying with her.

And yet life went on. He'd made it into medical school, hadn't caused trouble and was passing acceptably.

He couldn't wait to fore fill his dream of joining the army. Mostly it comprised of those born wingless. He couldn't help but be grateful that he hadn't been born a 'wingless' so he wouldn't just be cannon fire but he couldn't fly properly so he'd be more readily excepted by them. The other winged would probably look down on him but he didn't really care about them, flyers had been looking down on him all his life.

But he couldn't help but think that he might as well have been born without any wings.

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**Sorry this has taken so long! And sorry it's going quite slowly right now. It will pick up soon we just wanted to introduce them as characters and their predicaments. **

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**From M and **_**C. **_


	3. You Won't Remember This

"_Some upstarts always try to get closer to the source of creation by ascending to the source's level. The story of Icarus is of course a parable about the folly of such an effort." _

_-Marcus Wohlsen _

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Sherlock woke up on the hard floor of a cell _again._ He groaned and attempted for the next two minutes to un-stick his tongue from the roof of his mouth.

"Really, Sherlock, not again..." Came Mycroft's annoying drawl from behind him so he slowly scooted himself around to face the other man his wings folding back in annoyance.

"Why not?" Sherlock hissed narrowing his eyes at his pompous twit of a brother.

"You're going to kill yourself one day, Sherlock, and you know how much that would upset Mummy." Mycroft sneered at him.

"Sleep well, Sherlock?" Lestrade strolled into view, grinning at the arguing brothers used to it by now.

"Hello Detective Inspector..." Mycroft smiled smarmily down at Lestrade.

"Mr Holmes." Lestrade grinned back.

"Has my brother been causing mischief again?" Mycroft chuckled; it grated on Sherlock's nerves.

"No." Sherlock pouted.

Lestrade laughed. "Yes! He keeps wondering onto my crime scenes and making wild accusations."

"I do bloody not."

"Yes, that sounds like Sherlock! What is this, eight?"

"Yep eight!" Lestrade laughed. "He keeps annoying my staff! Blurting out all their secrets; don't know where he finds them out..."

"You're not listening to me, are you?"

Mycroft grinned. "That's his secret, Detective Inspector, he deduces it all. Works it all out- you really should hire him for it!"

"No, you're not..."

"Wait, he wasn't high? He really does work that all put?"

"Am I not here anymore?"

"It's sort of a family trait..." Mycroft flashed him a big grin.

"That's it, I don't exist..."

"Oh? So why don't I hire you Mr Holmes?" Lestrade asked in a husky tone, touching the other man's arm flirtatiously. Both of the men's wings perked up in interest as they moved closer together.

"Oh God, why do you pick now to start flirting? Why not wait till I'm really gone to?"

"Oh you know I couldn't leave my job at the government..." Mycroft smirked.

"Oh dear... Well I suppose we could consult with your brother then... but you'll leave a phone number, yes?" Lestrade grinned moving closer.

Sherlock buried his head in his hands as Mycroft slowly reached for one of his cards and slide it into Lestrade's front pocket on his jeans. "Oh God, why me?"

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"_Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue_

_I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace._

_Where never lark or even eagle flew —_

_And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod_

_The high un-trespassed sanctity of space,_

_Put out my hand, and touched the face of God."_

_-John Gillespie Magee Jr_

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John gasped, trying to draw more oxygen into his lungs as he tensed up; his veins filled with adrenaline.

The dream had felt so_ real._ The army psychologist- they had needed one recently, everyone was developing PTSD and other syndromes that had the government scared that the fight would be lost because they'd broken their own little toy soldiers- called them _episodes, _but he just called them the dreams.

He loved and hated the dreams, no one was the same but they all made him feel elated. That is until he woke up and he felt crushed because it wasn't real but he felt it was, or at least it should be.

They were always about flying; in most he could fly. In a few rare ones he couldn't but he had before and he knew how it felt; he had never been able to fly, didn't know how it felt and that hurt; hurt him so much.

Tim, the psychologist come nurse who worked beside him, told him it was a lot like the soldiers who lost a wing or an arm. They'd wake up with phantom pains or itches for a limb that was no longer there. But those people, who had never had something, never had these pains but they still felt loss, felt that there was something fundamentally wrong because that was in human nature.

He flopped back onto the bed relaxing back into sleep slowly, scared and excited for more of the dreams but hoping, praying to any god who'd listen, that it wasn't _that _one.

The one where he flew, but he fell.

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**Hi guys! I know it's short but this is it for this chapter, the next one should be longer though. Promise (sort of)! **

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	4. Look Who's Digging Their Own Grave

_"Once you have tasted flight, you will forever walk the earth with your eyes turned skyward, for there you have been, and there you will always long to return." _

_― Leonardo da Vinci_

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Sherlock stalked onto the crime scene in a foul mood. Mycroft was too busy to preen with him and he had no one else; his last useless roommate had left the week previous and even if he had been here he wouldn't have let that useless bugger touch him. So now he'd tried his best but the feathers in the centre of his back stuck up at odd angles painfully, they weren't smooth and kept poking him or brushing his back distractingly. It was annoying him and putting him off.

As Donovan approached him, most likely to reproach him, his wings spread out a little and the feathers all puffed him; making him look bigger and scarier. She thought better of it, wisely, and backed off quickly. Her smaller wings folding back in submission because, unlike her occasional nest mate Anderson, she knew when she'd lost.

When Sherlock got to the two bodies he looked over them slowly, trying to hold his wings away from his back as much as possible.

"Lestrade?"

"Sherlock." Lestrade appeared behind him.

Sherlock began examining the bodies. "These are identical twins, about seven years old. They have a parent who beats them."

Lestrade nodded. "I thought as much, the bruises are consistent with abuse but they're fading so I'd guess they ran away...?"

Sherlock smiled slightly, Lestrade wasn't a complete idiot. "Yes, they have about a weeks worth of grime too. The one lying on the left has a tan line where a bracelet or watch was. The other has a mark where a ring was. I'd assume that they were given expensive jewellery despite a parents cruelty. It was probably to mark their wings coming through."

Lestrade frowned down at the bodies. "So why were they killed?"

"Most likely for their jewellery, probably kept it for sentiment and wouldn't give it up, even if they did run away from home." Sherlock sighed. This was a boring case but all he was getting for now. "If that's all, Inspector...?"

"Yes, yes fine thank you."

Sherlock nodded and began to stride away before Lestrade called out to him. "Sherlock? Wait!"

He turned on his heel to face the other man. "Yes?"

"Do you..." Lestrade faltered for a moment. "Do you have anyone to preen with? Your wings don't look very-"

"I'm fine thank you, Lestrade." Sherlock cut him off. "Was that all?"

Lestrade sighed knowing when not to push the other man. "Yes, sorry."

Sherlock nodded and turned, walking away.

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_"And falling's just another way to fly." _

_― Emilie Autumn _

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John was bent over a small child- dead he saw- when he heard the shout of a fellow soldier. "Captain! Captain, look! Over there." The man pointed, unable to do much else from his place holding a cloth to a wound in his leg on the floor. The others had gone to secure the small dusty village. "There's a man over there! He looks hurt."

John turned and saw the man. "Thanks, corporal." He began jogging over to the man. When he reached down the man sat up, so fast John stumbled back.

There was a bang and then blinding pain the pushed him to his knees and then the earth. Ringing ears and white vision left him reeling. As his hearing returned slowly he could feel his shoulder growing damp and a ripping pain through his whole body. Shouts of anger and then running feet and scrambling. Two more shots and then silence.

He could see the sky, the burning sun that beat down on him. Was the heat through his body due to the sun's warmth or the pain? He couldn't tell.

Oh God, he thought, I'm going to die.

Oh God, please, let me live.

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**Oh wow, this took ****_forever!_**** We're ssooo sorry (M has pointed out it is actually not her fault...) oh wow. **

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**From M and ****_C_****. **


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